Walk the Earth as a Little Boy
by HPontopoftheworld
Summary: Names are not empty things. There's so much in a name. People live on in names, and this can be both a blessing and a curse.   Just a short oneshot about Katniss and her son.


Spots of dappled sunlight play over my son's bouncing curls as he plays at the edge of the water. His chubby little hands are held by his father's, who might be trying to teach him to fish, if he really knew how either. I hadn't come back to this spot for a long time, and it took children for me to enjoy it again. My daughter likes to swim in the water, like I always have, but my son seems to more enjoy playing at the edge, watching the fish go by. But apparently this isn't enough anymore, and now he wants to catch them. So poor Peeta, who has never fished a day in his life, is clumsily trying to tie knots in the line, while my boy quickly loses interest and goes back to watching the water that laps at the shore.

I take pity on him, and go over to help. I try not to think about why, but if there's one thing I can do, it's tie knots. He grins sheepishly as I hand it back.

"You never did get the hang of that." I comment, keeping it as offhand as possible.

"It didn't help me like it helped you."

With just that exchange, the subject is dropped. I see a quick flash of terror in his eyes, the same one that often occupies my own, and we leave it at that.

"Why are you doing this anyway?" I ask. It's not something either of us have ever been familiar with, and it seems strange. Foreign.

"It just seems right, doesn't it?" His voice says that it should be obvious, and suddenly it is.

I sit down on a rock to watch, my bare feet skimming the cool water. It was easy to get out of bed that morning, a still elusive treat. Taking the moment to think about the sudden gravity of the day, I revel in the sunshine and peace, where the only sound is the stones splashing into the lake where my son is trying to skip them. He's not having much luck, though, and soon he's made his way into my lap."

"Mama?"

I wrap my arms around him, a motion that has long ceased being so unnatural to me. "Hm?"

"Why's Papa still playing with the string?"

"He wants to teach you to fish. You said that you wanted to try to catch one."

"But he doesn't know how."

"That doesn't matter. If he wants to so badly, he'll figure it out."

"He doesn't try this hard when I want to play archery, but he isn't good at that either."

I can't help but laugh a little at this. I didn't want to teach them to shoot at first, but Peeta convinced me. He's was right that my father would have wanted me to. But he also said that he would try to teach them first, if I wanted. It wasn't the most successful of his endeavors. He's always been a lousy shot.

"This is different. I can teach you that. But he thinks you should know this."

"Why?"

"Do you remember the story I told you about your name?" Peeta's comment. I want to avoid this. Thinking about my father was easier. But there's nowhere to run to, and I know I have to talk about these things eventually. Small steps as they grow.

"You said I was named after a hero." His face lights up. I smile sadly.

"I did, didn't I. Well, that hero came from a place where they fished a lot. He was a very good person, and if he were here, he would have taught you how to fish, just like Papa is. The memories flood over me, threatening to undo me, but I hold myself together for my son. If I can't do this, how will he learn, and how will I get better? "Maybe you'll be good at it, just like he was."

The boy smiles and nods. "I'll be great at it, and then someday I'll be a hero too!"

I nod back, unable to say anything else. Of course he still can't understand all of it. He doesn't know why I call the man he was named after a hero. He doesn't know why it's Peeta, not the man teaching him to fish. But that'll come. I can feel myself slipping, and know that in a minute I'll have to go into the woods and run, breathe, do something to distract myself. After a quick steadying breath, I send the bouncing, happy, bundle of curls back to his father.

"Go back to Papa, I think he's ready now. He's going to help you catch that fish."

His face lights up, tired of waiting, and reanimated and ready to go. Squirming out of my arms, he gets up and runs back over, clearly pretending he's that hero, even if he doesn't know him. I whisper one last thing to his retreating back before I slip into my woods to forget my past.

"Go on and learn how to do what we never did. Go on, Finnick Mellark."


End file.
